


Almost Sunrise

by The_Once_and_Future_Queen



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Death, Enjoy u bitches, Gen, I done fucked up, Its hard being a writer, Join me in this hell, Multi, Theres no porn just sadness, This is some pretty sad shit, aaaaaaaah, also maybe a sequel im not sure yet, i know i did, its good tho, lol u dead honey, u may or may not cry depending on ur emotional state, u will like it, yes i tagged it 7000000 things to get noticed because this is a goddamn thankless job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 00:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9632738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Once_and_Future_Queen/pseuds/The_Once_and_Future_Queen
Summary: An UnSub has a pretty disgusting lair and you find a way into it. The man is of no danger, but his cabin is. Or, more specifically, the things living in it (or on it, as the case may be).





	

**Author's Note:**

> hey kids pro tip dont read about deadly illnesses and then go watch your favorite tv show because it will always end badly.

The UnSub was a back town hick, traveling across the country and ripping apart his victims like a wolf. It was gruesome and cold blooded, but it was your job to find him. And, eventually, you did. He was hiding in his hunting cabin. You were alone when you found him. The stench of rotting meat hit you like a wall when you forced the door open. A rat bolted out the door, but you took no notice. The UnSub was standing in the middle of the room, eyes closed, blood dripping from his chin. Or, more accurately, what was left of it. He'd torn off his cheeks. His lips were gone, cut away by a rusty hunting knife caked with animal blood. You kept your cool, but just barely.

 

 

You radioed for backup and tried to stop the bleeding, but he was too far gone. He died on the floor of a filthy cabin with the stench of rotting flesh in his nose. You didn't pity him.

 

It was only a few days later you started to feel it. A persistent malaise and a pounding headache. The fever came a day later, and you stayed, curled up, on your bed. It didn't break for six hours. After two days away from work and no returned texts or calls, Morgan decided to check on you. He dug the spare key out of the flower pot and let himself in when there was no movement from inside the house. He found you, passed out with a nosebleed, blankets twisted around your prone form. You woke when he shook you and you doubled over with coughing fits. The phlegm that flecked the bed was mixed with blood.

 

A day later and you were in the hospital. The fever had risen to 104.6, and Garcia had taken you to the emergency room. As you were so incapacitated, your friends took turns watching over you when they could. Garcia covered most of it. She was unreasonably concerned for you (as she always was with everyone), and didn't hesitate to haul you to the hospital.

 

The doctors said it was pneumonia. Reid agreed, but wasn't totally convinced. He said he would go home and do some research. JJ brought you soup (which was ten times better than he hospital food, though you touched neither), Rossi gave you a copy of his book (signed, of course), Emily hushed Garcia, and Hotch... well, Hotch was Hotch. You appreciated it, you really, really did, but you had no energy. It hurt to breathe, to blink, to  _ think _ , and it was only getting worse.

 

By day three in the hospital you had been moved to the infectious diseases ward. The meds weren't working, you couldn't eat anything, and there was more blood on your sheets than was in your body. Your coughs were almost exclusively blood by this point, and none of your friends had been allowed to go into your room for... too long. You weren't sure. Everything was a haze. At one point you were sure Reid was yelling at your physician, but you couldn't be sure. Your head hurt.

 

By day four in the ER, you had gone into septic shock. There were nurses in your room, people yelling, and machines complaining. You thought they should let you sleep. Sleep was the key to recovery, and yet here they were, yelling and shining lights in your eyes. Your eyes tried to close, but someone kept pulling them open. Through the daze, you noticed people at your window. You lifted your fingers to wave at them, and they seemed to break. There were no distinct figures, but the grief was palpable. Vaguely, a thought occurred to you. Was it your team? Probably. Your parents lived too far away to be able to fly to see you in time for your quickly deteriorating situation. You tried to focus your vision on the group, but someone pulled the shades closed. You groaned in protest, but the wave of sound that followed drowned you out.

 

Everything hurt. Something was telling you to go. To take a break from your thankless job and rest for  _ once _ , just let yourself be swept away on the calm waters of sleep. Get your well deserved vacation. Lie back and let the universe wash over you like a tidal wave, pulling you out to the very reaches of the most beautiful nebulas and starry galaxies. To let go.

 

You did.

**Author's Note:**

> i literally typed up the odds for survival of this disease and spun a fucking wheel to see whether you lived or died. no joke. also i may or may not do a lil baby sequel of this. we'll see.


End file.
